


Hit The Ground

by Cristinuke



Series: Bang Bang [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Blood and Gore, Injury, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-03
Updated: 2014-10-03
Packaged: 2018-02-19 15:42:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2393918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cristinuke/pseuds/Cristinuke
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time Phil got seriously injured on Clint's watch.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hit The Ground

**Author's Note:**

> This came about from a prompt I was given ages ago on [tumblr](http://cristinuke.tumblr.com/post/87659571979/shit-are-you-bleeding).
> 
> Beta'd by the amazing [varjohaltija](http://archiveofourown.org/users/varjohaltija)

Clint came out stumbling into the alleyway, guns still poised for any attacker. 

"Barton, report." Coulson’s cool voice sounded in his ear.

Clint spat out blood and saliva and settled into a crouch behind a dumpster, gun ready and body tensed with adrenaline. 

"I got made, Coulson. Shit hit the fan, and I got out of there, but they weren’t far behind. I think I lost them, though." Clint wheezed through what he was sure were a pair of broken or fractured ribs. They hadn’t been very happy about finding out there had been a spy among them. 

"Copy that, Barton. Stay where you are, back-up’s on the way." Coulson’s smooth tone replied over the earpiece. Clint breathed out raggedly, but felt a little better when he heard that. 

Clint stayed there, half-crouched with eyes and ears open for anything unusual. Being on the ground made Clint nervous, but he knew there was no way he could scale the building without giving away his position or further injuring his left shoulder that one of the thugs managed to dislocate. 

Clint wished he had his bow.

"Barton? Report." Coulson’s voice came back, just as Clint heard gun fire just outside of the alleyway. 

"Same position, sir. Orders?" Clint backed up a little more against the wall, wedging himself along the dumpster to hide himself better.

He heard more gunshots, and a couple of grunts and a low cry. But nothing from Coulson. 

"Sir?" Clint tried again. "Orders?"

Clint heard static and then Coulson’s even voice. “Blue dumpster behind the Thai restaurant?” 

Clint breathed out a sigh of relief, but still held his position. “Yes, sir.” 

"You can come out, then, Barton." Clint chuckled dryly at the overlap of Coulson’s steady voice in his ear and in the flesh. He slowly extracted himself from his corner and immediately spotted Coulson, standing straight at the entrance of the alley.

Clint cracked a grin as he slowly made his way towards him, aware of the strain his right leg was under with the bullet imbedded inside, “Took you long enough.”  

Coulson didn’t crack a smile like Clint thought he would, and as he got closer, Clint’s eyes narrowed on the rapidly growing red stain in Coulson’s abdomen. 

"Holy shit, are you bleeding?!" Clint exclaimed as he practically ran the rest of the distance, ignoring his own injuries for the moment.

Coulson didn’t answer him; instead he touched his ear piece and spoke calmly, “Barton’s located. Medical is needed urgently for two agents at North and 43rd.” Coulson stopped speaking and finally brought his gaze to Clint who was reaching a hand out to the blood.

As soon as Clint touched him, though, Coulson seemed to  crumple, and narrowly avoided smacking his head on the concrete because Clint managed to grab him and help him down in a controlled fall, his own body giving up on him.

"Fuck, Coulson?" Clint was trying to keep the panic at bay, but he saw how the red was spreading much too fast. There was no way it should be that quick, but it seemed to be seeping into every inch of Coulson’s suit. 

"Shit, shit, shit, c’mon, stay with me!" Clint cried out as he put pressure on his stomach. Coulson groaned weakly at the touch, but he tried to help, hands coming up to bump into Clint's. He then seemed to forget what he had meant to do, so instead he reached up and grabbed onto Clint’s arms, and Clint had to bite back a scream as the combined pressure of pushing down on the wound and Coulson’s grip hurt his shoulder.

"Fuck, Coulson, talk to me, c’mon, stay with me." Clint begged when Coulson still wasn’t talking and his eyes kept fluttering closed. 

Clint could only keep pressure on the ever-bleeding wound and pray that medical could reach them in time as Coulson’s grip slacked and his eyes shut closed. 

"No, no, no! Coulson, c'mon, wake up!" Clint panted out quickly. He kept the pressure steady on Coulson's abdomen, wincing at the strain on his shoulder, but pushing through the pain. Coulson needed him.

Clint kept urging Coulson to wake up, to please wake up, but his eyes remained resolutely closed. Clint was in danger of tipping over to hyperventilating from the panic of watching his handler die in his hands. All he could concentrate on was keeping pressure and watching Coulson's chest rise and fall weakly as blood slowly seeped through his fingers.

He was startled when he felt hands pulling him backwards; he hadn't heard the ambulance's sirens or the EMTs asking him questions. One of those EMTs bodily hauled Clint away from Coulson when they realized Clint was in shock and not responding normally. Clint didn't realize it until he was suddenly too far away from Coulson; he thrashed and yelled, trying to get back to him, spitting out curses when his view was blocked by working EMTs.

"Coulson! No, get off me, I have to-, he's bleeding-, I need to help him!" Clint was rambling, mind buzzing with white noise. He knew he wasn't thinking clearly, but he couldn't calm down enough to care. At least, not until he felt a pinch in the crook of his arm and realized that SHIELD's EMTs don't screw around.

"No, no, wait," Clint protested, but his muscles suddenly weren't working too well for him anymore. He was taken away from Coulson, to a second ambulance where they strapped Clint into a gurney, flashing lights into his eyes, taking his blood pressure and asking him too many questions to focus on. The drug was working on him too quickly, making him feel groggy and slow.

"Agent Barton, are you with me?" One of the EMTs asked. She had a kind face, and seemed supremely competent, Clint observed.  He kept staring at her, not quite understanding the question until she repeated it three times. Finally gave a short nod, but quickly stopped when he realized that was just making him dizzy.

"Agent Barton, we've given you a small sedative to help calm you down. You're okay, we're just going to take a look at your injuries. Can you tell us what injuries you've sustained?" Clint squinted at her as he tried to remember where he hurt.

"Umm, shoulder?" Clint ventured a guess when he tried to turn, but was stopped by a bright burst of pain.

"It looks dislocated, but we can fix that easily. What else, Agent Barton? You're bleeding from your right leg." When she mentioned it, Clint felt a wave of pain come from that region, and he nodded, gritting his teeth.

"Bullet." Clint gasped out when she put pressure on his leg. Breathing hurt more, though, causing him to gasp again, and whimper at the pain that caused. "Ribs?" He gritted out, and he saw her nod her head thoughtfully. He couldn't keep his focus when she started talking to other EMTs and there was so much movement around Clint, he couldn't concentrate.

There was something he wasn't thinking about, something he knew he should be thinking about. He was worried, anxiety simmering low in his gut, and he tried to remember. The anxiety kept trying to push through, but the drug was making it so hard to think. He was injured, yes, but so was Coulson. And Coulson was…where was Coulson?

"Wait, Coulson, where's Coulson? He's hurt, s'bleeding, I need, I need, t'see him." Clint slurred out, and he knew that that was what the anxiety was about. Coulson was hurt, he needed to make sure he was okay, why couldn't he see that for himself?

"Agent Barton, stand down. My colleagues are with him now, they're doing everything they can. He's going in the other ambulance now, and they're going to take him to the hospital. Agent Barton, do you understand me?" Clint winced when she tied a temporary bandage on his leg, putting pressure on it to slow the bleeding.

"I need, I need to go with'im, le'me, le'me go, please…I need, need to make sure…" Clint kept protesting, even as the doors to his own ambulance closed shut and the vehicle sped away.

"You're being taken to the same hospital, Agent Barton, you're going to be fine." She started maneuvering Clint's injured shoulder around, and Clint grunted in pain. Her hands were soft on him, but he was too confused to appreciate it. "We're going to pop your shoulder back in, okay? I'm going to count to three, one…two…three."

Clint screamed and his mind went blank. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Clint flitted in and out of consciousness, each time groggy and unable to understand what was really going on. It wasn't until they finally eased up on the drugs that he was able to stay awake for more than a few minutes, and the first thing that came out of his mouth was to find out where Coulson was.

"Easy, Agent Barton. You need to stay calm, alright?" The doctor was an asshole, Clint decided. He didn't care that he was being irrational, but he needed to know where Coulson was, right now. The fact that the doctor kept pushing him back down onto the hospital bed was making Clint grow angry; worse so, was the fact that Clint was still so weak that he could be pushed around so easily by the doctor.

"Fuck you. Tell me where Coulson is, or I'll fucking break your neck." Clint gritted out, trying to breathe past the dull pain that was making its presence in his chest known. Clint hated broken ribs. At least his shoulder wasn't in agony anymore. His leg was too numb to really feel.

"That won't be necessary." A cool voice was heard from the doorway, and Clint's eyes snapped up to land on Fury's single one. The director nodded at the doctor in dismissal, and the doctor huffed out an exasperated breath before complying, throwing Clint a stern look as if it would help keep him in bed. 

When they were alone, Clint finally sat up, poorly succeeding in hiding his wince at the harsh movement. Fury just looked at him reproachfully. When Clint stared back defiantly, Fury rolled his eye and continued, "Coulson's stable. He was in critical condition for longer than we'd've liked, but he's going to make it."

Clint felt like a boulder had just dropped off of his shoulder, the relief was so palpable. It must have shown on his face, because Fury's expression softened a little bit as he pointedly gestured for Clint to lie back down. Clint absently complied, his shoulder and ribs thanking him for the respite after the effort of just sitting up.

"Can I go see him? Sir?" Clint asked, tacking on the honorific so that he didn't sound like he was being too disrespectful. He still didn't quite trust Fury, no matter what Coulson said.

Fury simply raised an eyebrow to say that he saw through Clint's caution around him. With that shrewd look, he shook his head, "No. Not until you're healed up and off of bed rest, and he's awake and in better condition to be accepting visitors." Fury's hardened expression returned as he straightened up, and just like that, it was the end of that conversation. He left before Clint could get indignant and argue back his disagreements and complaints about the sudden turn of events.

Instead, Clint stewed.

The drugs in his system were still doing their job of making him docile and sleepy, aided by a new needle-full of painkillers that a kindly-faced young nurse added to his IV line a few seconds after Fury left. Clint hadn't even realized she had materialized by his bedside until it was too late and she was pumping the stuff in.

With the drugs making him so spacey, it took a long time for him to form a plan, and by the time he was all set to carry out this fantastic plan of his, the drugs hit him hard and he was knocked unconscious. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Clint's plan was a joke, really. He knew that, objectively, but he didn't care, too driven by the need to make sure Coulson was alive. He had to see it with his own eyes.

Which was why Clint didn't care about how much his leg was going to cramp up as soon as he crawled through the vents to Coulson's room. He'd figured out where he was being kept after swiping a clipboard from one of the passing nurses, and he  knew the layout of this hospital well enough that he could figure out to get to the intensive care unit. The fact that Coulson was still there made Clint feel on edge.

It took over an hour to find the room, and Clint put that down to the fact that maybe he didn't know the hospital as well as he'd thought, rather than the persistent pain that laced through him every time he breathed or dragged his injured leg along. His shoulder had turned into a bone-deep ache from the stress of supporting his own weight, but Clint ignored it, finally curling around himself on top of the ceiling tiles that covered Coulson's room. Clint had peeked through a vent to see that his handler was, indeed, alive. He had lots of machines hooked up to him, all proclaiming the vitality of its patient, and soon the soft beeping of Coulson's heartbeat lulled Clint into a fretful doze.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Clint. Wake up, I can't come get you." A thready-sounding voice floated up through Clint's subconscious.

Clint mumbled something incoherent and curled into himself a little bit tighter, his shivering hurting his ribs.

"Clint, please. Wake up." The tired voice drifted up to where Clint was, and Clint squeezed his eyes shut harder, his hands shaking as he wrapped his arms around himself tighter to get warm. He was so cold. Why was he so cold? He was so tired too. And he hurt everywhere. Why did he hurt?

"Clint." That voice again. Clint loved that voice, trusted it with every fiber of his being. It was probably the only reason why he started moving on automatic, attempting to stretch out and wake up. It was hard though; he couldn't extend himself completely because there were walls all around him. A shot of panicked adrenaline shocked through him as he opened his eyes and saw only grey darkness surrounding him. His body was thrumming with energy as his muddled mind tried valiantly to understand the current situation.

He must have made some sound or movement because that soft voice came back, "Clint, you're in the ventilation shaft. Come down."

Coulson. That was Coulson's voice. Coulson was awake and ordering Clint to come out of his hiding place.

Hiding place? Oh, that's right. He was hiding in the ceiling…over Coulson's room in the hospital…because Coulson had been hurt.

Clint had been hurt too. That was why he was in pain. But why was he so cold?

His brain wasn't firing as fast as he wanted, but his instinct to follow Coulson's orders was too strong as his numb fingers found a tile and pried it open. Dim light blinded Clint for a moment as he struggled to shift his body over the hole. Clint gripped the opposite tile and made to let his body go first, but his fingers were more numb than he thought, combined with a sudden bright flare of pain from his shoulder, and he slipped, dropping down in a heap on the floor below.

Clint gasped out a strangled whimper at the sudden impact on his sore body, especially his bandaged leg. Blinking out the spots from his vision as fast as he could, Clint tried to look around his surroundings. It took him much longer than he would have like to admit, but he finally remembered everything that had led to this as his eyes landed on Coulson, who was lying down on the bed to his left.

Coulson looked like shit; his face was ashen, his hair a mess, eyes half-lidded and he had bandages covering more skin than not, with tubes tangling everywhere around him. He had an oxygen mask, but he was currently pulling it down from his face, fingers loosely gripping the plastic. Despite his terrible state, he was giving Clint a mixture of an unimpressed glare with a concerned look.

"What have I told you about discharging yourself from medical?" Coulson asked him blandly. Now that Clint was paying attention, he could see how drugged up Coulson still was, and could hear the latent pain in his voice. Clint was vaguely impressed that Coulson was this lucid under all the painkillers he must be on. Then he remembered why he was here in the first place.

"They wouldn't let me see you." Clint replied back softly, feeling exhausted and meek all of a sudden. His limbs were cramping up and he was still shivering, his muscles too tight. He was still in a heap on the floor, too tired to be bothered to move into a more comfortable position. He could see Coulson just fine from this angle. He just wished he wasn't so cold.

Coulson's expression transformed into sole concern. "Clint…" he trailed off as his eyes slowly searched Clint's face and took in his physical state. He didn't want to know what Coulson was thinking, but his voice now held a sympathy that Clint wasn't used to, and for some reason it made him feel like crying. He refused to let himself break down, here on the floor of Coulson's hospital room, when the man himself was clearly in a worse state than he was. He mentally pulled himself together and offered Coulson his best shit-eating grin.

"Hey, at least now we'll have matching scars." He pointed out weakly, pretending his lips weren't trembling.

His blasé act must have failed miserably, because Coulson's expression didn't change as he murmured quietly, "Come here. You can share with me."

Clint was about to ask what he meant, when Coulson started shifting to his right, making a little bit of room for Clint in an obvious invitation to join him. Clint's panic came back in full force when he saw the winces and low gasps Coulson was making at having to move.

"What are you doing, you're going to open your stitches, and oh god, you shouldn't be moving, what will happen if you-,"

"Clint, come here now." Coulson gritted out in short breaths, "You're still injured, and most likely made it worse by crawling around in the air conditioning vents, and you probably have the beginnings of mild hypothermia from stupidly falling asleep up there. Come here." His breathing was turning a bit ragged so he let the mask slip over his face again, fogging it up with his gasps.

Clint couldn't argue, not with that tone and not in this situation. And really, he didn't want to. So he forced himself up, slowly and painstakingly making his way over to Coulson's bed. Coulson had scooted over just a couple of inches before the pain must have been too much, but it was plenty enough for Clint to gradually lower himself down onto the mattress and help his body lie down without jarring Coulson too much.

Clint grabbed the blankets and tucked himself and Coulson beneath them, the heat of Coulson's body already helping his shivering mess of a body to start calming down. Being so close to Coulson, Clint could feel the raspy bandages that covered Coulson's abdomen against his own skin, and a wall of memories flooded Clint; Coulson, lying down on the ground, bleeding out and  Clint, unable to do a damn thing but pray to a god he didn't know if existed.

"They wouldn't let me see you." Clint mumbled again, ignoring the way his voice trembled to match his hands as he let his fingers trace the bandages. He didn't know why he felt like this was the most important thing to tell him right now, but he didn't care. He sniffled quietly when Coulson reached down to grasp one of Clint's hands with his.

"I'm okay. We're going to be okay." Coulson breathed out, his voice losing volume and sounding muffled behind the oxygen mask. Clint glanced up to see his cloudy eyes were drooping closed, whatever drugs he was on fighting back to take him under.

Clint's own drugs in his system were beginning to fade, and he knew he was going to be in a lot of pain in a few hours, but he was too damn tired to do anything about it. So he just held onto Coulson's hand and nodded to himself before saying, "okay," and closed his eyes, letting his exhaustion wave over him.

He trusted his handler with his life, and if he said it was all going to be okay, then Clint was going to trust him.

 

**Author's Note:**

> If you want, come check out my Marvel-ous [tumblr](http://xavengers.tumblr.com/)


End file.
